Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Sorry for the late update, but I've been back in school over the past few weeks, and I haven't gotten used to my schedule yet, so my writing routine is a little crazy right now, but I'm starting to sort it out. Expect more frequent updates from now on! :) Thanks for your patience!


"Did you boys have a nice time playing with the other children?" Arthur asks as he picks the twins up from their impromptu stay at the hotel's daycare.

Alfred huffs and narrows his eyes into a scowl—a scowl that, peculiarly enough, mirrors Arthur's. "No, it was dumb."

"How so?"

Matthew smiles and jumps into the discussion, surprising everyone including himself. "He's angry because he lost to a girl at a thumb war."

"Ahh, I see," Arthur smirks, ruffling Alfred's hair. "Never underestimate an opponent, lad."

"But that means I lost to a GIRL," Alfred fumes, hoping for sympathy.

"And it won't be the last time you'll lose to a woman, I'm afraid," Arthur adds dryly. "It's high time for dinner. When that frog joins us, we'll be on our way."

"Arthur, why do you call Fran—Papa—a frog?" Matthew asks, genuinely curious in the way only children can be.

Arthur blinks, attaches Alfred to his trusty leash again, and says, "All Frenchmen are frogs. It's best to learn this sooner rather than later."

"Is that a bad thing? Being a frog, I mean."

"On occasion. Some frogs are more irritating than others," Arthur explains with an air of authority.

Matthew tilts his head in thought. "I don't think Papa is irritating."

"You haven't had the displeasure of knowing him long enough yet."

"But you guys are gonna catch the bad people, right?"

And for the longest second, Arthur feels the terrifically horrifying sense of realization that comes with knowing someone looks up to you. He isn't role-model material, and the boys would be much better off putting their faith in someone else, surely.

"Well, we're going to try," he finally responds, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. "But that's for me to worry about."

Dinner progresses in a similar fashion to how all of their meals have gone thus far. Arthur and Francis make admirable efforts at ignoring one another, Alfred tries to order something horrendously unhealthy and gets reprimanded, Matthew gets upset when he's told he can't have pancakes 24/7 and needs to pick something else on the children's menu, and they make it through without suffering any major emotional trauma.

Arthur has become acutely aware of the constant staring from passersby. Some people glance, others jeer, and some make it an active duty of theirs to pretend they don't notice them because they're afraid of being caught staring. He's sure Francis knows of this phenomenon as well, but neither of them bring it up in conversation. It's uncomfortable to discuss, to say the least.

Although, really, what's there to be uncomfortable about? They're a family like any other. Well, posing to be a family, but still… As much as people claim to be all right with the prospect of same-sex couples, they don't practice the same attitudes—they still proceed to make a spectacle of things.

But it's not the first time Arthur has been subjected to being the center of ridicule and insults, so he doesn't waste too much time thinking about it. He does, however, lift his guard more than usual.

It's all he can do.


"I can go to sleep in the chair, if you want."

"Nonsense. There's a perfectly good bed here, and you're going to sleep in it, Alfred."

"B-But… I'll talk in my sleep and kick and—"

"Just close your eyes and stop fussing."

Alfred sighs and sinks under the covers. "I'm sorry."

"You'll be even sorrier if you don't hold your tongue and go to sleep like you're told," Arthur warns, but he suspects his attempts at being intimidating are losing their strength on the boy.

"Goodnight, Dad."

Arthur rolls his eyes. There's no need for him to be called "Dad" when they're not in public, but he allows it anyway. "Goodnight."

Alfred's out like a light before long, and once again, Arthur is stuck gazing stupidly at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to bless him. He has considered getting himself a long-term sleeping aid, but he's mistrustful of taking medication, unless he's on his death bed. He doesn't want to form a dependency.

Which means he has to come up with creative ways to keep his mind sharp without getting a full night of sleep. Memory games are helpful, and sometimes, on nights where being with his own thoughts is unbearable, he'll mentally recite prose or literature to himself. A few of Shakespeare's monologues are oftentimes enough to put him to sleep for a few, fitful hours.

Now I am alone.
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force… Force his soul so to his o-own conceit.

This time, Hamlet does the trick, and Arthur stills, breathing evening out. He doesn't notice he's fallen asleep until he's aware of waking. He forces his eyes open, and he doesn't know what time it is anymore, but it's dark and he's not any less tired.

It almost takes him a full minute to discover what exactly roused him, and then, he jerks out of bed and into a standing position on the carpet, disgusted as a frightened Alfred looks up at him with shining, blue eyes.

Alfred has wet the bed.

Arthur takes a breath to compose himself, and then, before the boy can protest, he yanks on Alfred's shoulder and steers him into the bathroom, nose scrunched at the smell. The boy begins to cry, and Arthur wants to yell at him for sobbing like an infant, but he knows that won't solve anything. So, he helps Alfred out of his pajamas and runs a bath, testing the temperature of the water before dunking the crying boy in it.

"Shh, stop that. You're all right."

Alfred coughs and splutters on his own mucus. "B-But only babies are supposed to wet the bed."

"I assure you that you're not the first boy of your age to have an accident. It's not the end of the world. Goodness gracious, Alfred, you cry at spilt milk. I don't know what to do with you," Arthur growls, but there's an underlying softness to his tone. "It's all right."

"You're not mad at me?"

"No."

Alfred runs a shaking hand under his eyes and sniffles loudly. "M-Mom used to yell at me… Told me not to drink water before bed, and I don't, but it still happens. And t-then, Dad would… He'd say that I would never grow up to be a man if I kept doing stuff like this. He'd tell me to wash the sheets, and I would try really hard, but he'd scream at me and—" he tries to continue, but his sobs get in the way of his speech. "It hasn't happened for a long time, I swear! I don't know why—"

"It's okay," Arthur says insistently, perturbed. "Let's get you clean, and then we'll figure out what to do next."

"I'm really sorry!"

"Hush with the apologies. It isn't your fault."

A quick scrub, and it's as though nothing ever happened. Alfred changes into a new set of pajamas, and as he's doing so, Arthur decides to take a quick shower as well, seeing as he didn't entirely avoid the mess. Unfortunately, there's nothing they can do about the sheets at this time of night.

Arthur gathers the dry blankets and the pillows before setting them up on the armchair on the opposite side of the room. It seems he'll be sleeping in it after all. He props himself up on a few pillows and gets as comfortable as he can, given the circumstances. He offers his side of the bed, which is dry, for the most part, to Alfred, but the boy hesitates before outright refusing.

Arthur gives him an exasperated glare. "Well, you don't have a choice."

"I'll sleep in the chair, and you can sleep in the bed."

"No, that's not an option."

And then, without even suggesting it first, Alfred climbs up onto Arthur's lap, and squeezes himself next to the man so that they're both reclined on the chair. The boy rests his head on the man's chest, and Arthur is so dumbstruck he can't manage to utter a single word of protest.

Alfred drifts right back to sleep, and by that point, Arthur doesn't have the heart to disturb him. He grabs an extra pillow, wedges it under the boy's head, pulls the blanket over them both, and lets him be.

He will never understand children.


In the morning, Arthur blearily sees a smiling, giggling Matthew, and then, the sound of French singing reaches his ears. A quick glance of his surroundings reveals that Alfred is still sleeping on top of him without a care, mouth hanging open a fraction of the way.

"Sleep well?" Francis asks him from the edge of the other bed, an obnoxious grin playing on the corners of his lips.

Arthur refuses to take the bait this time. Without really thinking, he places a hand on Alfred's head and tries desperately to quash the warm feeling of content in his gut. He looks so innocent and small like this.

Arthur thinks back to the events of the last night—how the child seemed convinced he was going to be physically reprimanded for wetting the bed—and wonders how anyone, parent or not, could want to bring harm to such a boy.

"Mathieu, mon chou, your shoes are on the shelf in the closet."

Matthew, happy as a clam, mimics Francis's previous singing—the blasted frog has been brainwashing him with French—and thanks the man before jogging off to get his sneakers.

"We'll need to get the housekeeper to bring in new sheets," Arthur whispers, if only to remind himself.

"I'll contact someone," Francis assures. He doesn't have to ask to know what happened. The smell coming from the plastic bag in which Arthur had disposed of the ruined bedspread offers more than enough of an explanation. "Speaking of contacts, we have a problem."

Arthur scoffs. "Tell me something I don't know."

"The Vargas brothers know their room was bugged. They were bound to find out, of course, but I'd hoped we would have had more time. They don't seem to know it was us—not yet. In retaliation, I managed to hack into the server they're using and stole back the German chancellor's emails. I also deleted everything they had on NATO's proposed strategies for dealing with Russia's growing presence in Eastern and Central Europe."

"And there's no way they can trace it back to you?" Arthur asks.

"Oh, there is, but it'll take them some time. We need to plan our next move carefully."

"They can't be working alone. We have to find out who's buying this information from them."

Francis shakes his head, skeptical. "Maybe there isn't anyone else. It wouldn't be so hard to believe."

"No, they aren't clever enough to be on their own. That, or they're vastly inexperienced. If they were the sole masterminds, they wouldn't have made the amateur mistake of leaving their hotel room vulnerable," Arthur says with conviction. "There's someone above them. We just need to find out who."

"We've done enough. We retrieved the most important secrets they stole. We might as well call in law enforcement to—"

"It's too soon."

"Arthur, we don't have all the time in the world. The longer we take, the longer we leave dozens of officials and administrators at risk. If we don't catch the Vargas's while we have them cornered, soldiers, politicians, and innocent people caught in the crossfire will be killed. Just because I took the files from them doesn't mean they don't remember some of the names they had access to, and it could jeopardize everyone's safety, including ours," Francis argues.

Alfred stirs, and it's about time he did since it's already nine in the morning. Arthur quickly removes his hand from his head, forgetting it was even there in the first place.

"What's going on?" Alfred mumbles, rubbing a blue eye.

"Nothing that concerns you. Francis and I are merely discussing work. Get ready to leave for breakfast," Arthur says.

"Mmrghh… Okay."

The boy climbs off of Arthur's lap sluggishly and goes off to join Matthew in the bathroom, so they can compete to see who can finish brushing their teeth and combing their hair first.

When they're both out of earshot, and the water from the faucet begins running, Francis turns to Arthur again and adds, "Keep in mind we have two children with us, and we don't want to take any unnecessary chances while we're responsible for them."

"But we can't cut the mission short when we're—!"

"It's too dangerous, and you know it."

Arthur sighs, looks down at the pillow that's still on his chest from when Alfred was sharing the armchair with him, and says, "All right. We'll make arrangements to have the authorities take over, then."

"I know you want things to be ideal, but they can't be. Sometimes, we have to settle for second-best."

"For a moment there, and correct me if I'm wrong, it seemed as though you were being rational."

"I'm full of surprises. Didn't you know?" Francis teases. "The boys are growing on you. Don't think I can't tell."

"Yes, growing on my nerves," Arthur counters effortlessly. He's craving a cup of tea, and if Francis keeps drilling him with banter, he's going to need twice his usual serving. "I've fulfilled my minimum babysitting requirement for this mission. You can have the brats for the day."

Francis smiles. "There's nothing I'd enjoy more. Children are one of the only beautiful things left on this earth."

"I'd beg to differ, but to each their own."

Matthew wins the morning hygiene routine relay race and comes dashing out of the bathroom with Alfred in tow, itching for adventure.

"After breakfast, I'll take the boys for a walk around the area," Francis volunteers, and Arthur promptly approves.

Fortunately, for everyone's sake, breakfast is uneventful, and Arthur parts ways with the children, relinquishing them into Francis's care. He pats Matthew's head, does the same to Alfred, and then hands Alfred's leash to Francis with a firm warning to keep the boy in sight at all times.

"They will be fine. I won't let either of them drown," Francis adds bitingly.

Arthur, just barely, holds back a growl.


Francis is a good guy, Alfred supposes. He trots along the man's side, and when they are outside of the hotel's lobby and on the street where Arthur can't see them, Francis takes off his leash with a grin and says, "It'll be our secret, oui?"

Alfred can't complain now that he has his freedom back. He strolls ahead of Francis with Matthew, taking in a big breath of the warm, soothing Florida air. Francis takes them to a quaint souvenir shop not too far away, so they can by some knickknacks and other memorabilia.

After much debate, Matthew gets himself a boating hat with 'Orlando' written across the front, and Alfred gets the equivalent in t-shirt form. Of course, taking advantage of Francis's kindness, Alfred and Matthew both manipulate him into buying them some candy as well.

"For the trip home," Francis claims as he adds two chocolate bars, some sour worms, and lollipops to their shopping basket.

By noon, it's unbearably hot again, and Francis asks if anyone is in the mood for ice cream, a question to which the answer is obvious.

There's an outdoor frozen yogurt shop on the pier, and Francis lets them choose whatever flavors and toppings their hearts desire. Matthew digs right into his mango ice cream with strawberry slices on top, but Alfred pauses before he devours his double chocolate swirl, suddenly worried.

"Papa, when are we going home?" he asks.

"Within the next two days, mon lapin."

Alfred frowns, that means he's going back to the group foster home. The foster home with the other children who're mean and never let him play with them and call him names just because they want to. No more sharing a bed with Arthur, eating breakfast like a family, and tugging on Francis's arm to tell him stories. No more ice cream and souvenirs and waterpark vacations.

All this time, Arthur and Francis have been nice to him and Matthew, but for what? Just to make sure they cooperate until the mission is over and they can all go back to their regular lives? Alfred should've known better than to think they actually cared—that they would miss him.

He stares at his ice cream, throws it down in frustration, and runs off into the flurry of the crowded pier, wishing he'd never been forced to go on this stupid trip with stupid people who make everything worse because that's all adults are good for—ruining things and then walking away from the debris.

He hears a panicked voice calling his name in the distance, but he doesn't turn around to look back. He could start his own life here in Orlando, where the weather is generally nice and everyone goes about their own way. He'd take Mattie with him, but Mattie wouldn't survive a life without adults, and he needs someone to take care of him. It's for his own good that he stays behind, as much as it would hurt Alfred to be separated from him.

First things first, he has to find a new place to live—a place to call his own. That's going to prove to be trying, but he has a couple of ideas and—

A giant hand comes swooping down like a vulture and slams against his mouth, stunning him. Soon after, another hand wraps around his waist and holds him too tightly. He cranes his head around and expects to see an irate Frenchman, but…

That's definitely not Francis.


"What do you mean he's gone?"

"I turned my back for a second, and it was crowded when he—"

"And why, pray tell, didn't he have his leash on?" Arthur snarls, practically blind with anger. A vein in his neck pulsates as he grabs Francis by the collar and shoves him into the wall of their hotel room. "He could be anywhere!"

"I can't change the past, and standing here yelling at one another isn't going to help find Alfred," Francis rasps, taken aback at how Arthur still has the power to scare him like this. "I called the local police department and explained the situation. They're out looking for him as we speak."

Arthur releases his crushing grip on Francis and scoffs. "It looks like I need to take matters into my own hands. We're going to turn this city upside down if we must."

He reaches for his cell phone, and just as he does, the phone in their hotel room rings instead, and Arthur, Francis, and even Matthew stare at it with bated breath for a second or two before Arthur finally has the courage to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"We have the boy. Give us what we need, and maybe you'll see him again."

Arthur swallows around the boulder in his throat, pales, and frantically motions for Francis to start tracing the call by using the landline's number identification. Whoever's speaking to him certainly doesn't sound Italian, and suddenly, this mission is much larger than just the Vargas brothers.

"What is it you want?" Arthur asks once he's sure Francis is following the necessary protocol. He does his best to make certain voice doesn't waver. He's been trained to handle this, and he's not about to let himself become hysterical.

"You're going to get NATO to withdraw the troops it has deployed to Poland."

"I'm not in a position to give you that," Arthur says, trying to draw out the conversation. "What the military does—"

"You have contacts. Refuse to do it and the boy dies. Then again, it wouldn't be much of a loss, would it? He's just one boy, isn't he? What's one life worth to an entire military effort?"

Arthur grits his teeth and brushes the words off. He can't be manipulated so easily. "I'll see what I can do."

He's not giving this bastard a damned thing.

"Excellent. I am very happy we understand one another. You don't have much time. If I were you, I'd start getting to work, Dad," the mysterious man taunts, pleased with himself.

The line goes dead, and Arthur slams the phone down, shaking. He sees Matthew huddled in a ball on one of the beds, frightened, while Francis is busily typing away at his laptop.

"Have you found the location yet?"

"Yes, it's an abandoned building twenty minutes away from here by car. But Arthur, they're not hiding—they want to be found. It's clearly a trap," Francis warns, confirming what Arthur already knows.

"It doesn't matter. One of us needs to go along with it. Let's make sure the area is secured."

He's just one boy.

Arthur shakes the thought out of his head and ignores the sickly feeling in his stomach. "We need to move quickly, and we don't have any room for mistakes."

"I know. You'll have to arrive alone. I'll get a car ready."

In the midst of all of this, Matthew begins to cry, and although Francis and Arthur are tempted to tell him everything will be all right, they're not in a position to make such a promise.

There's no room for mistakes.